Neural Web

by Dima Zales

  I enable the rat version of the Share app. The first thing I do is verify something I already inferred but didn’t want to worry Mr. Spock by asking: Alan’s heartbeat is steady through his shirt, and the boy is breathing evenly.

  Relieved at the proof my son is alive, I examine Mr. Spock’s surroundings as much as I can. With the rat’s inferior vision, it’s hard to tell for sure, but it seems like we’re in a well-lit room—or so I presume, based on the vague shapes I can discern through the fabric of Alan’s pocket. Being a lab rat and thus albino, Mr. Spock’s sense of smell is slightly worse than that of a regular rat, but that’s still light years above that of an unenhanced human. Since the Share app translates rat experience into human perception, the room smells stagnant, reminiscent of the recycled air in our bunker. It also tells Mr. Spock (and thus me) that there are a couple of male humans in the room.

  “Be very careful when you peek,” I say. “It’s okay if we can’t see what’s going on.”

  Mr. Spock slides his nose about a millimeter out of Alan’s shirt. I make a snapshot of the environment before I have him hide again.

  Ada is lying on a cot next to Alan, and there are indeed two armed men in the room, though unfortunately, both are wearing Richard Nixon masks over their faces.

  “Stay still,” I tell Mr. Spock. “We’re lucky they didn’t see you.”

  “Okay.” He proceeds to contemplate whether he wants the cashew, the walnut, or the raisin that remain in Alan’s pocket.

  Using Muhomor’s app with Mr. Spock as a conduit, I check out the Wi-Fi networks in the place. The single network smells like rotten eggs, so I give up trying to hack it for now, though I plan to unleash Muhomor himself on it shortly. I then try locating Mr. Spock’s coordinates using GPS, but wherever he is, there’s either no GPS signal or they’re using a jammer. At least Mr. Spock has access to Global Terahertz wireless internet, or we wouldn’t even be able to communicate. The Terahertz system allows me to approximate the location of Mr. Spock’s connection.

  “Catskills,” I announce triumphantly.

  The walnut gets stuck in Mr. Spock’s throat, and he sniffs the air in full panic mode. “I know they do,” he says when he doesn’t find a cat in the pocket with him or smell one in the room. “Why remind me?”

  “I’m sorry, bud,” I say. “Not ‘cats kill.’ The Catskills is the name of a mountain range in New York state.”

  He relaxes. “Bad name.”

  “I know. I’ll petition to change it to Ratsrule, but don’t hold your breath.”

  “I don’t like to hold my breath,” he says sagely. “It’s hard.”

  “Then don’t hold your breath,” I say as seriously as I can. “I want you to keep your nose ready so you can let me know if those men leave the room.”

  “Okay,” he says with the kind of pride in his olfactory senses I’d expect from a good hunting dog. “I’m on it.”

  Almost giddy with progress, I switch attention to the VR room and find Mitya and Muhomor watching me intently.

  “So it’s hard to say if she’s guilty or not,” I say. “But watching that video gave us a big break.” I proceed to tell them about Mr. Spock.

  “I’ll try to get onto that Wi-Fi.” Muhomor changes his sunglasses into the pince-nez he likes to wear when he hacks. “But if it uses—”

  “Just do it,” Mitya says. “Tell us when and if it’s done.”

  “What’s with the hostility?” Muhomor uses his middle finger to pretend to push the pince-nez farther up his nose, but we all know he’s flipping Mitya off.

  “Sorry,” Mitya says in a tone that suggests nothing of the kind. “I just keep feeling like we’re playing catch-up with our adversaries. They seem to be a couple of moves ahead of us at all turns. Their plan A was to get Gogi to kill Mike for them, but they also had a plan B—take Ada and Alan hostage in case plan A fails.”

  “And force Mike to leave the safety of the bunker to run after his family,” Muhomor says, his tone more serious.

  “Which I’m about to do,” I say, nodding. “But I don’t really have a choice.”

  “Which is why I’m irritated.” Mitya looks at Muhomor apologetically. “It’s like a bad game of Go.”

  “Well,” I say. “We do have Tatum. Perhaps we can question her on the way to the Catskills and get ahead in the game.”

  “Assuming she knows anything,” Muhomor says.

  “And assuming our adversaries didn’t plan for whatever Tatum revealed,” I add.

  “And assuming she herself is not the adversary who manipulated us to get her out of the bunker according to some plan,” Mitya says.

  “I can leave her here with Muhomor to question her,” I say. “Then we’d still have some leverage.”

  “I’m not going?” Muhomor asks.

  “I don’t think you should,” I say. “You’re not a fighter, and we can use your help here on the back end.”

  “Okay,” he says. “Anyway, someone with a brain needs to look after your mother and uncle.”

  I nod. “And this way, Tatum doesn’t leave the bunker.”

  “Agreed,” he says. “Let me prepare to question her while you get ready for departure.”

  I nod and switch to the real world, where the nurse is beginning to agree that I’m going to be fine. To make sure the medical staff doesn’t revolt, I try to exude health and vitality as I get up from the couch.

  Step one in my prep: check on Dominic’s condition.

  “I’m fine,” he says, though the bandage around his eye looks serious to me. “What’s the update?”

  I tell him what’s going on until Dr. Jarvis comes over and gives me a stern look. “He should be resting.”

  “I’m coming with Mike,” Dominic says to the doctor.

  “Then you’re doing so against my recommendation,” Jarvis says.

  “I’m going,” Dominic says with the kind of certainty only people with that much brute power can have. “I’ll organize the other guards.”

  He gets to his feet, his legs running without a hitch thanks to his exoskeleton. As he rushes to rally his troops, I tell the doctor to keep Gogi unconscious until we return.

  Then I head to Mom’s room, mentally debating what, if anything, to tell her before I leave.

  Mitya’s avatar shows up in the air in front of her door. “I suggest you speak to her afterward.”

  “But she’ll wake up and not know where I am.” He has a good point, though.

  “When she wakes up, Muhomor will tell her the truth—that you went to get Ada.”

  “But he’ll avoid the full truth,” I say sternly in VR. I make sure Muhomor nods back.

  A part of me fears that later, I might not get a chance to tell Mom anything at all. If I get myself killed, she might resent that last night’s mundane conversation about the quality of the bunker food was our last one. I picture myself as a digital ghost like Mitya, resurrecting in a few years to a torrent of complaints from Mom.

  To stop these morbid thoughts, I go into the kitchen to put a banana-avocado smoothie into my system.

  “You’ll elaborate on Muhomor’s story when you come back,” Mitya says when he sees me come out and glance at Mom’s door one more time. What he leaves unsaid is: “If you come back.”

  “I’ll come back,” I mutter, more to myself than to Mitya. “Even if that means I come back as a ghost like you.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Mitya is driving the car again because Einstein doesn’t speed even when his creators beg (or forcefully insist) that he drive faster.

  We’re going to be in the Catskills soon, but I still have no clue exactly where Alan and Ada are or who’s keeping them and why. Though the likely answer to this last question is: to lure me outside the bunker.

  “It’s all ready,” Muhomor says in Zik. “I sent you a camera view.”

  “What’s ready?” I ask.

  He doesn’t answer, probably to force me to look. I’m tired of staring out the window at the
same never-ending fields, power lines, and distant factories, so I close my eyes and dedicate my attention to the new viewpoint.

  The camera shows Tatum’s bedroom in the bunker. Muhomor stands over the poor girl like a crazy stalker. He reaches out and touches her shoulder in a way that’s creepy even for Muhomor.

  “Hey, what are you doing?” I say, frowning. “I know your experience with the female of the species is limited, but I can assure you, they don’t like what you’re currently doing.”

  “You don’t need girl experience,” Mitya chimes in. “Just use the golden rule. Picture yourself waking up and seeing some really weird-looking dude touching you like that.”

  “It would depend on why the handsome stranger was there,” Muhomor says, but he leans away from Tatum.

  “Mike, when you tell Ada about this later, I did not approve Muhomor’s plan,” Mitya says.

  “But he did help me with it.” Muhomor seems to be on the verge of maniacal laughter. “Our ephemeral friend was actually instrumental to my plan.”

  “I really hope I get the chance to sell you out to Ada soon,” I say. “I think I know what you did—but why don’t you tell me anyway?”

  “I just attached a transdermal Brainocyte patch to her shoulder,” he says.

  “One that runs the Polygraph app on the loop, as we earlier discussed,” Mitya adds, confirming my suspicions.

  “Not sure I want to tell Ada about this at all,” I mutter. “This is pretty messed up, you guys.”

  “Her people have your wife and kid,” Muhomor snaps.

  I’m shocked at the intensity in his voice. I didn’t think he cared this much, and it’s a pleasant surprise to find out that he does—even if it’s resulting in unethical behavior.

  “Miss Crawford,” Muhomor whispers loudly. “Please wake up.”

  “There are earplugs in her ears,” Mitya says. “They look heavy duty, so I doubt she’ll hear you even if you shout next to her face.”

  “But don’t shout next to her face,” I say, unsure if Muhomor needs the clarification or not.

  “How last century.” He deftly plucks an earplug from the woman’s ear.

  Her head lolls to the side, exposing a pillow-creased pink cheek.

  Muhomor gets bolder and repeats, “Miss Crawford?”

  She pulls a blanket over her head. He tugs the blanket away and then, for good measure, leans over her and shakes her shoulder. Her long eyelashes flutter open, and she gapes at the thin weirdo above her for a fraction of a second.

  Then, predictably, she screams.

  “You’re still our guest,” he says calmly as she proceeds to jump up and cover her nightgown with the fleece blanket.

  “He’s not there to hurt you,” Mitya’s voice says from a wall speaker.

  Her gaze darts around the room, likely in search of something she can use as a weapon—objects that Dominic thoughtfully removed last night.

  “That’s right.” Muhomor tries to smile reassuringly. On his face, the expression looks more like a scowl. “We have a bit of an emergency, and I wanted to ask you some questions.”

  Tatum now looks more confused than frightened.

  “Please, Tatum,” Mitya’s voice says. “People’s lives are at stake.”

  “Can you give me a moment to dress?” She looks around, trying to find the source of Mitya’s voice. “Whoever you are.”

  “Sure,” he says. “My colleague was just leaving.”

  Muhomor stands there as though he doesn’t know that he’s the colleague in question. His eyes narrow on Tatum as he launches a private Zik chat with us. “I don’t want her to have too much time to realize she has AROS now.”

  “I think it’s safe to let her put some clothes on,” Mitya replies, imbuing his Zik message with so much snark that I fully expect Muhomor to revolt. “As the only incorporeal member among us, I’ll keep an eye on her, though.”

  “Digital perv,” Muhomor mumbles vindictively as he stalks out of the room.

  “All right, Tatum, just come out when you’re ready. I’ll give you some privacy,” Mitya says.

  The camera goes blank—Mitya is being a gentleman—so I can only assume she gets dressed.

  In a couple of minutes, Muhomor gives me a new camera view in the kitchen.

  “Come eat some breakfast,” he says with surprising warmth when Tatum finally comes out. “I just need a couple of questions answered.”

  Tatum warily eyes Muhomor’s pajama-clad body, but hunger must win out because she says, “Fine. Let’s go.”

  “Did you write an article for the Green Voice at some point?” he asks casually as he opens the fridge and grabs himself a Twinkie. Privately to Mitya and me, he adds, “I know she did. This is a baseline question.”

  He gallantly holds the fridge door open and gestures for her to get what she wants.

  “I did,” she says after fishing out a pack of cheese. “It’s probably still on their website, if you want to read it.”

  “That was true, both according to facts and according to the app,” Mitya says to me privately. “Now I wonder how he’s going to get her to lie without telling her that he wants her to tell a falsehood.”

  “I’d love to read it,” Muhomor says, sounding impressively genuine. “I have an oddball question for you: do you think my little nephew is cute?”

  Using the screen attached to the front of the smart fridge, he pulls up a picture of the most hideous baby I’ve ever seen in my life.

  She takes in the image, and I can tell she nearly loses her appetite. “He’s very cute,” she says after she recovers her composure. “How old is he?”

  “That was a lie, according to the app, and it’s safe to say we now have a baseline,” Mitya says. “I don’t even want to know where Muhomor got that picture.”

  “I had to use Photoshop to create that monstrosity,” Muhomor tells us. To Tatum, he says, “Little Dimochka just turned two.”

  “Hey!” Mitya protests. The name Muhomor used is the diminutive of his own. “You should have named him Freddy or Jason.”

  “Oh, the terrible twos,” Tatum commiserates. Her shoulders relax as soon as Muhomor takes down the picture. “Your brother or sister is in for some tough times.”

  “Especially if this imaginary parent has eyes,” Mitya mutters.

  “I really hope you can help us, Tatum.” Muhomor bites into his snack.

  “You said so before.” She spreads mayo onto a slice of rye bread and slaps cheese on top. “What happened?”

  “You remember Alan? The child you spoke to last night?”

  “Yes.” She takes a careful bite of her sandwich. “Charming little guy.”

  “She’s lying,” Mitya comments. “About the charming part.”

  “Alan was kidnapped today,” Muhomor says. “Do you know anything about it?”

  “Kidnapped?” Her eyes look as if they might pop out of their sockets. “That’s terrible. Of course I had nothing to do with it. I told Mike yesterday, my people are peaceful and would never hurt anyone—let alone kidnap a little boy.”

  “Everything she said was true,” Mitya comments with clear disappointment. “Not good.”

  Muhomor proceeds as though Mitya didn’t just shatter all our hopes. “Do you think anyone in your group is more radical than you? Someone tired of everyone else’s nonviolence?”

  “I can’t think of anyone,” she says without hesitation. “If I knew someone like that, I’d change their mind.”

  “Even this is all true,” Mitya laments. “Or at least, this is what she really believes. We know some of her fellow RHO idiots are violent, like that asshole who poked holes in the tires of those Uber cars. But she truly doesn’t see them as violent.”

  “There’s something else,” Muhomor says to Tatum, but it’s obvious he’s losing hope now. “Is anyone in your group knowledgeable when it comes to Brainocytes? Does anyone know how they work or how to hack them or to cause Brainocytes to have unintended consequences?”


  She stops chewing, her expression as disgusted as if she’d just bitten into something spoiled. “We all stay as far away from those abominable devices as we can. Anyone who fetishizes Brainocytes would be kicked out of RHO.”

  “Again, true,” Mitya says. “Let’s go discuss this in the VR room. Looks like she was a complete dead end.”

  “I leave it to you to explain to her that you put the ‘abominable devices’ into her head,” I tell Muhomor vindictively. “Just be careful she doesn’t finally find that violent bone in her body and choke you to death.”

  “Or break one of your bones,” Mitya adds helpfully.

  “Make sure you also teach her how to use Brainocytes and disable the Polygraph app,” I say. “Good luck.”

  My real-world eyes still closed, I pop into the VR room, which feels achingly empty without Ada.

  “So,” I say as Mitya and Muhomor’s avatars turn my way. “Tatum is not guilty.”

  “It appears that way,” Muhomor says reluctantly. “Or she should get an Oscar for that acting, and be entered into the hacker hall of fame for working around the Polygraph app.”

  “There’s no way she worked around Polygraph.” Mitya gives Muhomor a dark look. “You need to learn how to gracefully admit defeat.”

  “Fine.” Muhomor grits his teeth. “She’s innocent of the kidnapping, I admit that much.”

  “Then we must now explore our other big clue,” I say. “Something we should’ve done in parallel with this Tatum fiasco.”

  Mitya’s face lights up. “Russia.”

  “Exactly,” I say. “We already thought Russia was the key to all this somehow. The original theory was that maybe RHO was working with some Luddite group in Russia, but if we know that RHO is innocent, a Russian anti-tech group sounds less plausible as well.”

  “Agreed,” Mitya says. “But that means we’re back at zero.”

  “Not exactly.” I sink into the simulated high-end office chair and try to uncoil the tangle of emotions overwhelming me. “I had a glimmer of an idea back when you said something about skimming Brainocyte IDs from a dead user’s head.”